


For The Price of a Cup of Tea

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bottom Harry Potter, Charity Auctions, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Dates, First Kiss, Flirting, Gay Draco Malfoy, HP: EWE, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Romance, Sexuality, Sleeping Together, Tea, Top Draco Malfoy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:35:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: When Draco Malfoy returns to England, he doesn’t know what he is looking for. Meanwhile, Harry’s spent the last few years trying to make the magical world a better place, but he’s unable to escape the nagging feeling something will always be missing. Years later, when they reconnect and find in each other an equal match, the missing pieces of their lives begin to fall into place.





	For The Price of a Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I've never had three betas but aibidil, carpemermaidtales and jadeprelsey I cannot thank you enough for all helping me make this story the best it could be. It was so important to me to nail the dynamics and certain things in this story and you all helped me make this story the best it could be. And tons of thanks to Nova for all the french help! <3

Harry pushes the note in his hands aside with a sigh. It was from the local primary school, politely declining Harry’s offer to speak at the school about his charity. He’s not surprised, especially considering there are five other similar rejection letters currently sitting at the bottom of his desk drawer from other magical schools across Britain. It’s just that he’d hoped after nearly four years he might have a bit more to show for his work. He’d known it wouldn’t be easy; he hadn’t known, however, that it would so often feel like this — as if it were a bit hopeless.

Harry shakes his head to dispel the unease as he pushes away from his desk and begins to pace his office, a habit he picked up years ago. It’s a storefront more than an office, really; a place just off the main road in Hogsmeade. He’d taken it immediately when the place went up for rent just a few weeks after he officially founded his charity — the Civil Rights Union of Magical Britain, or C.R.U.M.B. as Teddy likes to call it.

Founding the charity was one of the best decisions Harry had ever made, but it’d come after a lot of personal struggle trying to come to terms not only with who he was but also with how that affected the people around him, and especially how the laws and bias in magical society prevented full equality for those who didn’t fit the heteronormative mold. It’d been a startling discovery for Harry to realise that, after a lifetime of fighting for equality based on blood status, something like gender identity or sexual orientation could still stop witches and wizards from being seen as equal under the law, from being treated with the same respect and dignity as everyone else.

Harry’d come to the realisation that he was bisexual just a few weeks before he started Auror training, not long after he and Ginny ended things. But it was knowledge he’d never put to use, was just something he one day quietly accepted about himself, the same way he accepted he couldn’t tame his ridiculous hair. It wasn’t that Harry had been hiding his sexuality, it just never seemed like something important. At least not until Teddy came to him on his seventh birthday and quietly confessed that sometimes when he was alone he liked to make himself a girl. He’d been so scared, so afraid of Harry’s rejection. Harry’d gone to Andromeda immediately afterward and she’d smiled a knowing smile at him and whispered to Harry that it’d been happening for a few months. She told Harry a lot of metamorphmagus children went through that stage around his age, but also confessed that she thought it might one day to turn out to be more than just a stage for Teddy, and that if it did she worried for the rejection and ridicule he might face.

Something tight and painful had coiled in Harry’s stomach at the idea of anyone ever making fun of Teddy, of denying him the right to be himself, whoever that might be. Something hit him then, something he felt he must have surely known on some level all along — that he’d kept his bisexuality a secret because he knew it would be a big deal. He’d not wanted to be fussed over or gossiped about or watched. Yet he wondered if, by finally putting the truth out there, he might be able to use his unwanted fame for good.

The following weekend, Harry purposely let himself get caught kissing a bloke for the first time. He hadn’t known the man’s name, hadn’t wanted it to mean anything — but he couldn’t deny that the next morning when his photo was splashed across the front of every Wizarding publication, his sexuality laid out for all to see, he hadn’t felt hounded — he’d felt free.

Of course along with that freedom came a surprisingly large amount of backlash. Harry’d been a bit naive to think people might accept it just because of who he was, but he’d been surprised to find the Wizarding World, while fairly tolerant on the surface, still held a lot of the same prejudices and legal inequality that the Muggle world held. Harry found it harder and harder to maintain his facade of a happy life, to continue to work as an Auror, when he knew that the society didn't afford him and many others the same rights as everyone else.

It’d all come to a breaking point the day Harry was assigned the personal security detail to Alastair McClary during his campaign speech for the next Minister of Magic. Harry was standing beside him at the podium, and the moment Alastair had uttered the words, _“We must protect traditional Wizarding values,_ ” something in Harry snapped. He looked around at the people cheering, at the person he was protecting, at the inequality he was silently allowing to continue, and knew he couldn’t do it for one second longer.

He’d been unhappy in his line of work for a long time, but until that moment he’d thought of it as one more thing he just needed to accept. It was then Harry knew he was tired of being what people expected him to be, in every single way possible. So without stopping to think of the consequences, Harry walked up to the podium and smiled at Alastair, who had stopped speaking at the sight of the Ministry’s favourite Auror taking his microphone.

“Traditional values are shit,” Harry said into the microphone. “What we want, what we need now more than ever is equality.” He’d said it a lot more confidently than he felt. “Oh, and I quit,” he’d added, lifting his fingers up in a two-fingered salute to Robards before unfastening the buttons on his Auror robe and dropping it to the ground.

Harry had ignored the chaos, ignored the crowds, and walked away, feeling, for the first time in a very long time, proud of himself.

Of course afterward he’d drunk himself into a stupor for a week and hid out on Ron and Hermione’s sofa in an attempt to avoid the photographers and journalists surrounding his flat. It wasn’t until Hermione pried the firewhiskey bottle from his hand and reminded Harry that he had the power to effect change if he chose to take it that he finally stopped hiding and decided to start _doing_.

He’d begun researching how to start a charity aimed at fighting for equal Wizarding rights the next day. A week later he had a name, and two weeks later he had an office.

He’d wanted a central place to run the charity, to effect change, and yet he’d also wanted a place with enough privacy that LGBTQ kids from Hogwarts felt safe enough to visit, but prominent enough that no one could ignore the changes he was working so diligently to achieve.

Hermione had suggested he start it at his home, but he couldn’t imagine bringing people back to his home to discuss magical and social injustice so he’d begun the hunt for a place immediately. This small abandoned storefront had popped up just a few weeks after Harry began the charity. At the time he’d only had the name and a desire to make a difference. But on a whim he’d leased the place for a year, allowing his blind faith to guide his decisions despite his lack of practical knowledge of how to run something like this or any solid plans.

Hermione had tutted at him fondly and Ron just smiled as they’d helped him restore the place. The windows had been broken, the floor cracked, and the paint on every wall was peeling. Harry strongly suspected something illegal must have been going on in the back storeroom, because there was a distinctly strange odour that neither he nor Hermione could get out despite attempting every cleaning charm they knew, and even Muggle cleaning techniques when those failed. In the end, Harry had boarded up the door and shoved a heavy bookcase in front of it. He rather thought pretending it didn’t exist was a wonderful solution to dealing with something he couldn’t change. The next thing he’d done was knock down all the walls so that instead of a few separate rooms, it was one giant space. Harry wanted everything about it to feel as inclusive and welcoming as possible.

It’d taken weeks of hard work and sleepless nights to get the place exactly how he wanted it. To be honest, Harry wasn’t even sure how he wanted it to look, but he had known that when designing the space and picking out furniture and colours and things to hang on the wall he’d had to look at things, touch them, imagine them in his office before he knew if they were a good fit or not. Which meant despite his friends’ many offers to help him, he hadn’t been able to accept any help. He couldn’t explain to anyone why he felt the need to do it all alone. He just had. After quitting the Aurors he’d felt a burning need to do something, anything, and spent longer than he cared to admit floundering before he’d decided this was it — _this_ was what he was meant to be doing with his life.

Harry can’t help but smile as he walks around the room now, rubbing his face and pushing the rejection letters out of his mind. For the time being, he will focus on the positives.

There are two squashy armchairs by the window that Teddy had helped him pick out — the very first things he’d bought for the place, along with several bookcases filled to the brim with books ranging from Muggle to magical, about everything from LGBTQ issues to fairytales. Shoved in the corner between the chairs there’s a wireless player that Teddy likes to turn on full blast on Hogsmeade weekends when he comes to visit. There are a few handmade windchimes with strange figures painted on them dangling from the open window near the door — gifts from Luna meant to ward off the nargles and bring positive energy. They were sort of strange and hideous looking and Harry absolutely loved them.

When he’d started designing the place he’d just wanted a space where the students, and Teddy especially, at least once he was old enough to come to Hogwarts — could come and relax, ask questions if they had them, and feel comfortable to be themselves. He’d known the office was primarily just where he would work, and where he would meet people, but he’d wanted it to be _more_ than that — to be a safe place for those who needed it. Which is why he’d finally allowed his friends to come in right before he was done, to help add the finishing touches. It’d been Teddy’s idea to add the wireless for people who were uncomfortable with silence, and Luna had brought the windchimes. Ron had shown up with the bookcases — shrunken down in his pocket — and Hermione had come bearing a flag to hang outside, a plain white flag with a wand held aloft, not sparks of magic but a rainbow shooting from the edge. She’d told Harry she’d had Dean design it. And Harry had realised then that he’d wanted so desperately to make it his own he’d lost track of the fact that the people that loved him were part of what made him who he was.

The other half of the room is quite a bit more put together — more professional — containing Harry’s desk, which is currently cluttered with no less than three different mugs of half drunk tea, his favorite feathered quill, and several stacks of parchment waiting to be organised — something he’s putting off until after he’s had another cup of tea and read today's edition of the _Daily Prophet_. There’s also an antique table and mismatched chairs he had restored, where he eats his meals when he doesn’t want to leave the office, and goes over important documents with benefactors and Ministry officials on the rare occasion it’s been necessary.

Mostly, though, Harry spends his days puttering around his office, writing another letter to the Ministry urging for equality, or sending out polite owls to various Wizarding establishments requesting he be allowed to give speeches about what exactly he does at the Civil Rights Union of Magical Britain. It feels tiresome sometimes, having to explain to people over and over why equality is a right and not a privilege, but at the end of the day when Harry falls asleep, it’s with a sense of fulfillment he never used to have — not at school nor in his six year stint as an Auror.

Harry’s musings are cut off when a familiar grey owl taps at the door. It takes him only a moment to cross the room, open the door, and then deposit a few Sickles in the pouch tied to the owl’s extended leg before he takes his daily copy of the paper. Harry hums to himself as he fixes a fresh cup of tea in the small kitchenette in the corner, grabbing a packet of lemon biscuits and shoving the paper under his arm as he moves back to sit at his desk.

He’s barely got himself set up with his morning snack when the photo on the front of the folded up paper catches his eye — an unmistakable and familiar head of blond hair — and Harry’s blood goes cold. It can’t be Malfoy.

Harry can’t explain the thoughts swirling through his head as he slams the paper down onto his desk, scattering several important documents in the process. There, in large print, is a photo of someone tugging their robes up at the collar, their face obscured by their hands, but the person is unmistakable — familiar long, bony fingers, almost picturesque posture, and shockingly white hair.

__

_**Draco Malfoy Returns To An England** _ **— _Malfoy Heir’s Fall From Grace and Return to the Top, Juicy Details and Full Disclosure on page ten_**

With shaking hands Harry flips to page ten, cursing when he knocks over his full cup of tea. It seeps across the newspaper, soaking the pages and making it impossible to read.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry bites out, pushing away from his desk on instinct to escape the tidal wave of hot tea. He pushes back too hard, slamming into his bookcase and dislodging the precariously balanced tome on Wizarding Laws and Traditions Hermione had given him for his birthday last year from the top shelf. “Fucking Malfoy!” Harry curses again when the book hits him squarely on top of the head and causes him to fall backwards fully into the bookcase, tipping it over. It’s only his quick instincts that have him grabbing the top and shoving it back against the wall before shooting an angry Sticking Charm at the heavy piece of furniture for good measure.

Harry isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when Hermione comes into the office half an hour later and finds him sitting on the floor without his shirt — which is currently balled up in the corner soaked with tea — and half his books still scattered around him as he attempts to read his soggy copy of the Daily Prophet. He is trying to decipher whether the last bit of the article has implied Malfoy rode cattle in America or raised them — he’s not entirely sure which idea he finds harder to imagine.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asks, looking a bit concerned at Harry’s current state. “I thought we had plans for lunch, but you didn’t come to the Three Broomsticks.”

Harry shakes out the paper, holding it out towards Hermione. “Can you do a drying charm on this? Mine are shit and I didn’t want to accidentally _Incendio_ it,” he says, purposely ignoring her previous questions.

Hermione looks dubious but takes the paper from him, raising an eyebrow in silent question before casting a perfect drying charm over the paper. She’s halfway to handing it back to Harry when she stops, looking at the picture above the article of Malfoy leaving the Wizengamot trials right after the war — right before he’d fled England.

“Did you forget to meet me for lunch because you were reading about Draco Malfoy?” she asks, sounding calm but pursing her lips as she flips to the front page, inspecting the photo before looking up at Harry knowingly.

“No, of course not. That would be absolutely ridiculous,” Harry lies automatically, not wanting to admit that just the mere mention of Draco Malfoy being back in England is already fucking up his life. Not that he blames Draco exactly, except that he kind of sort of does.

“Harry, you couldn’t lie at sixteen and you can’t lie now.”

Harry grumbles, reaching for his wet shirt off the floor as he stands up and silently hands it to Hermione. She looks a bit exasperated with him, but she smiles as she dries that too, handing it back to him.

“I was just curious, is all,” Harry lies again, because he feels a lot more than _just_ curious. There’s a weird sort of tension pooling in his stomach as he wonders where Malfoy went. Wonders why he left, and most of all why is he back?

Hermione doesn’t look like she believes him, but she reaches out to take his arm anyway as they head towards the door. “Why don’t we get lunch? And then we’ll see how long it takes before you mention Malfoy,” Hermione teases.

“You’re horrible, you know that,” Harry tells her. “I hate you.”

Hermione laughs softly. “You do not. I’m not sure you hate _anyone_ , Harry. Not anymore.”

Harry lets the words wash over him as he locks the office door behind them, wondering at what point in the last ten years he forgave Malfoy and why he never realised it before. Hermione doesn’t say anything else, just squeezes his arm as they walk down the cobbled road in companionable silence.

“I don’t care that Draco Malfoy is back,” Harry abruptly adds a minute later, and this time Harry isn't sure who he’s lying to, Hermione or himself.

***~*~*~***

“Fucking rain,” Draco mumbles, shoving his wand in his pocket and popping open his umbrella. There are far too many Muggles around to cast an _Impervius_ , but he’s been living around them for so long anyway that it isn’t like he’s not used to doing things without magic. Besides, it isn’t like he isn’t used to the rain as well — he’s certainly seen more than his fair share of it in the last ten years. Maybe it’s his imagination, but it just seems different.

Everything seems different.

The air feels heavier — almost oppressive — and the rain seems wetter somehow, and it isn’t his imagination that the people definitely stare more. Or perhaps it’s just that he’d got so used to his quiet life that any small amount of change is enough to shake him out of his comfort.

Returning to England doesn’t feel like returning home, no matter what the _Prophet_ insists on writing.

By the time Draco reaches the Leaky Cauldron, his clothing is soaked through and his shoes have enough water to fill the Black Lake. He ignores the heavy whispers and stares that come his way when he walks through the front door, shaking out his umbrella before casting a quick drying charm on his clothing.

He tells himself he doesn’t care about the words whispered his way, hissed out like hexes — deadly but fleeting as he makes his way through the pub. Draco is very good at lying to himself, even if it’s a skill he hasn’t needed to use in awhile.

It only takes a few hours of meandering through shops — the first time he’s been in an entirely magical area in over a decade — before Draco has a splitting headache and a strong desire to leave once more. Sometimes he’s not even sure he can explain the pull he felt to return in the first place.

His life had been good. It had been quiet, predictable — _safe_. It was a life he’d cultivated day by day, choice by choice. It had been his and his alone. It had been exactly what he needed it to be; a place to be himself without the weight of everyone else’s expectations and judgement. A place to grow and change and find out who he was.

But then one night, Draco had lain in bed listening to the spring rain falling against his window and realised something was missing. No matter how much he’d tried to recreate his life, something about it felt temporary, felt empty. There’d been pride at the life he’d managed to build without anyone else, until he’d realised the walls he’d built to keep himself safe were also keeping him isolated.

Whatever it was Draco was missing, he knew it wasn’t there. So he’d packed up his things the next day, put his home up for sale, and called the Knight Bus without looking backwards, knowing if he did he might not still have the courage to keep moving forward when he turned back around.

So Draco returned to England and did the only thing he could: he rented a flat, filled it with things, picked out a sofa and a dining table as if they would impact the way he lives his life. He invited his friends over and found a new coffee shop that makes his chai latte exactly how he likes it; he _lives_.

The problem, Draco realises rather quickly, is that it is not that England is different. Draco is the one who has changed and the world he’s returned to feels exactly the same, which is somehow as alarming as it is reassuring.

It isn’t until a few weeks later, while walking down Diagon Alley once more — this time with the sun shining upon his face — that he feels for the first time that perhaps there was a good reason he came back. He’s not even sure why he walked this way, since he usually avoids Weasley's Wizard Wheezes at the end of the road, but something had brought him that way. And there, in the front window of the joke shop, is a large poster. Civil Rights Union of Magical Britain is written across the top, and in the center a wand shooting out rainbow sparks. Beneath the logo are the words _Building a Future Where Everyone is Equal_. There’s an address below it for somewhere in Hogsmeade and Draco feels a smile spreading across his face.

This is exactly what he needs to reestablish himself and to prove to people he’s changed; he needs to take on charitable causes. The fact that the charity hits so close to home is only an added bonus, he thinks, looking around to see if anyone is looking before ripping the poster off the door and folding it carefully, slipping it into his robe pocket.

This is perfect, he thinks. This is a flawless plan.

***~*~*~***

It’s a Monday the day Harry’s life goes to hell.

Well, he’s pretty sure it’s gone wrong quite a few times before, but it’d always turned out just about all right, all things considered. The key, which he’d realised long ago, is to keep his expectations low; it’s hard for people or situations to disappoint that way. This time, however, Harry isn’t quite so certain things will turn out for the best.

He’d slept badly; truthfully he’s slept horribly all week, ever since finding out Malfoy was back in England. His dreams have been a mess of Hogwarts, of a tight grip around his waist and hot flames nipping at his feet, of sombre faces and of trials that absolved no one of their guilt. It’s been a long time since Harry has thought about those things, and Malfoy being back is bringing them all to the surface again, in ways that make Harry feel hot and itchy, as if his own skin doesn’t fit quite right anymore.

In an attempt to find a semblance of normalcy, he goes into his office bright and early. There is a light dusting of snow on the ground, which is a bit unusual, but not unheard of, for the end of March. Harry thinks it’s fitting, since everything else seems determined to go haywire lately.

His next indication that nothing is going to go right is when he goes to pull his kettle and tea bags from the cupboard in the corner only to discover the box is empty. _Empty_. Harry really wants someone else to blame, because what kind of wanker puts an empty box of PG Tips back in the cupboard? Except, he now distinctly remembers using the very last tea bag on Friday night when he’d stayed at the office well past dinner reading up on the Ministry’s latest legislative changes, which were set to be voted on next month. He’d promised himself he would remember to buy more tea when he did his shopping on Sunday morning, but apparently had not, in fact, remembered.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbles, poking the empty box with his wand forlornly.

Harry debates just starting in on his morning reading and letters, but decides against it, knowing there is no way he will be able to concentrate without something warm to drink. So with a rather heavy sigh, he heads back towards the door and pulls on his scarf and coat, locking the door behind him. He walks down the street to bother Mrs Hampshire, the kindly old witch who took over Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop a few months earlier. She never seems to mind when Harry pops in for a chat when he’s bored, piling him high with biscuits and tea and filling the silence with her memories.

He wonders if eight in the morning is too early to knock on her door and pretend to need a new quill.

Mrs Hampshire, it turns out, is not bothered by Harry, and instead insists on him joining her for a simple fry up.

“I’ve made far too much food, it’ll go to waste,” she says, already tugging on Harry’s coat sleeve and pulling him inside.

Harry follows her to the small flat above the shop, humming in agreement in all the right places as she talks a mile a minute about the stray kneazle she caught trying to sneak through her open window yesterday, and about the outrageous wholesale cost of ink these days.

When they make their way into her small kitchen, it doesn’t escape Harry’s notice that there’s no food anywhere, though Mrs. Hampshire is so busy talking about something she read in the _Prophet_ yesterday she doesn't pay any attention to Harry as she pulls out a chair for him. He sits silently and watches her take out sausages, eggs, and bread.

“Fried eggs alright, laddie?” she asks, and Harry smiles, nodding his head.

“That’s just fine,” he answers, kindly not pointing out that she clearly hasn’t already cooked. Harry thinks he knows a bit what it's like to be lonely, and wonders if Mrs Hampshire invited him up for her benefit or his own.

By the time they’re done eating an hour later, his stomach is full, and Mrs Hampshire has stuffed his pockets full of tea bags — some of which Harry thinks might actually be old enough to be considered antiques — and sends him on his way.

It’s not until Harry turns the corner, his own office coming into view, that he thinks maybe he should have realised his morning had been going a little _too_ well. His stomach is comfortably full and his worries are light, so naturally, something has to go wrong. Or _someone_.

Draco Malfoy is standing in front of of his door, his robes pulled up tightly around his neck to stop the chill as he glances around, looking as out of place here as he would have in Gryffindor tower.

“Potter, what are you doing here?” Malfoy blurts out in surprise when Harry is close enough to be stood right beside him.

Harry blinks a few times, trying to adjust to the reality of standing next to Draco Malfoy for the first time in nearly ten years. They haven’t seen one another since the last day of war trials, the day Draco apologised to Harry and thanked him for his testimony on behalf of him and his mother. He’d disappeared the very next day. No one was ever sure where he’d gone to.

And yet, here he is, standing in front of Harry looking somehow exactly the same as Harry remembers. He’s older, of course, but his features are just as pointy and prominent, his hair just as light, and yet despite being utterly recognisable there’s something about him that feels at odds with the memories Harry holds of the other man.

“Stop staring, it’s rude,” Malfoy chastises, fussing with his scarf.

Harry feels his cheeks heat as he pulls out his wand and unlocks the door, not bothering to respond. He tries not to smile at the look of surprise on Malfoy’s face as he does it, not wanting to think too hard about why it thrills him to be able to make him look as caught off guard as Harry feels.

Without preamble, Harry pushes the door open, walking inside and hanging up his coat and scarf on the hook on the wall. He waits a minute, and when Malfoy makes no move to follow he shouts, “Come in or shut the bloody door.”

Malfoy hesitates for only a second before stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. “You have absolutely abysmal manners, Potter. I don’t know how you survive.”

Harry isn’t entirely sure if he wants to smile or knock Malfoy over, so he hurries to the corner, emptying his pockets of the tea bags so he won’t have to look at Malfoy’s face.

“Are you a hoarder, too?” Malfoy asks and Harry jumps because he hadn’t heard Malfoy’s feet crossing the room.

“Fucking nosy git. Perhaps I just like tea.”

Malfoy peers around him at the pile of crumbled, pathetic looking tea bags. “Only the sad-looking ones. Did you need to save them too?”

Harry wants to be annoyed, but finds he can’t stop the bark of laughter that comes out of his mouth. When he finally turns around he’s pleased to see Malfoy looks like he’s working very hard not to smile himself.

“So, how can I help you? Are you looking for pamphlets? We’ve got loads.” Harry waves to the wall covered in brightly illustrated handouts Dean helped him design, with things like _Sexuality and Confusion_ — _No, You Haven’t Been Hexed_ and _Erumpets and Equality: Why Both Are Hard To Find_. Or Harry’s personal favourite, which the Board of Governors had politely asked him to stop handing out to Hogwarts students, that read _Prick or Pussy - Why Contraceptive Spells are Needed For All._

Malfoy looks flustered. “I don’t need any pamphlets. I came here to make a donation.” He moves away from Harry. “I didn’t realise this was _your_ charity, obviously.”

Of all the ways Harry had expected his day to go, this was not one of them. “You want to make a donation to the Civil Rights Union of Magical Britain?”

Malfoy rolls his eyes. “I do believe that’s exactly what I just said. Glad to see you’re as perceptive now as you were in school.”

Harry bites his tongue, knowing better than to offend a possible donor, even if it is Draco Malfoy. Loathe as he is to admit it, they’ve had surprisingly few donations recently, and Harry isn’t sure how long his own money will last if he’s the only one funding everything.

“Right, that's... fantastic. We have several pledge levels available.” Harry has the levels Hermione helped him design memorised. She assured him creating donation levels for benefactors would help. It never helped. “For twenty Galleons you get a nifty little pin with our logo on it. For fifty Galleons you get the pin and a bi-monthly newsletter about our progress, and for one hundred Galleons—”

“What if I want to donate a thousand Galleons?” Malfoy interrupts, and Harry nearly trips on his way to his desk. That’s more money than they’ve had donated in the last three years since he’d started this whole thing combined. The reality of where he could put those funds has Harry pushing down his gut reaction to wonder what Malfoy’s ulterior motive might be and simply accept it at face value.

“You want to donate one thousand Galleons to my charity?” He wants to be sure Malfoy hasn’t lost his mind before he gets too ahead of himself.

“That’s what I said. Do you have some sort of hearing problem, Potter? Who’s responsible for bookkeeping and fund distribution anyway? I’d like to speak to them about the parameters I’d like to establish on any possible donation.”

Harry takes the last few steps to his desk, jabbing his finger at the name plaque on the edge. “You’re talking to him. I don’t actually have any other employees or volunteers — _yet_.”

“Exactly how long have you been running it?” Draco asks, his eyebrows furrowed as he begins to inspect Harry’s desk. It makes Harry feel uneasy; no one ever pays attention to his desk. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of the empty tea cups and the sweets wrappers in the corner.

“Four years next month, actually.”

Malfoy looks to be thinking something over. “ _Interesting_.”

Harry wants to know exactly what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but he doesn’t ask because he knows how beneficial this donation could be. He’s already thinking about the second location he wants to set up in Diagon Alley, of the extra resources he could provide to those who need it, and to the increased visibility they could get with a wealthy benefactor. Granted, it’s Malfoy, but the last few years have taught Harry nothing if not to seize any opportunity.

His mind made up, Harry locks his eyes on Malfoy’s. “Can I answer any questions for you before you decide—”

“I’ve already decided. I want to make the donation.” Malfoy looks more sure of himself as he speaks those words than he has since he appeared at Harry’s door.

“Right. That’s wonderful, Malfoy. Thank you.”

Malfoy looks down at his watch, then back at Harry. “I’ve somewhere I need to be. When should I come back to discuss how the money will be allocated?”

“That’s not usually how it works,” Harry replies automatically, annoyed that Malfoy wants to try to take control. He should’ve expected it, really. Truthfully, Harry had found out when he’d first started this thing that a lot of charities did actually allow benefactors to decide how their money was spent, but Harry has never had anyone donate enough at one time for it to be an issue. He’s used to doing things on his own.

Malfoy’s hands clench into fists at his sides, but he relaxes them almost immediately before letting out a heavy breath. “Yes, well it will be if you want my donation.” There’s a stubborn tilt to his jaw now. This time, Harry is pretty sure he wants to knock him over.

“I’m quite positive we can arrange something that will satisfy you,” Harry tells him smoothly, plastering on the same placating tone of voice he uses when he has to talk to the Minister. “Why don’t you come back on Friday afternoon. Half past three?”

Malfoy looks pleased. “I’m sure I can clear my busy schedule for you.”

Harry can’t help but snort at that, covering it up with a fake cough. Malfoy just arches an eyebrow at him as he walks towards the door backward, never taking his eyes off Harry.

“Oh, and Potter,” he adds, his hands on the doorknob. “You don't look completely horrible.”

And then he’s gone, the wind slamming the door shut behind him.

“Fucking Mondays,” Harry complains, stalking to the corner and tapping the kettle with his wand, watching in satisfaction as it boils immediately. “You’re not sad, either. You’re alright,” he adds, dropping one of the tea bags into his favourite mug and pouring in the boiling water.

It’s not until Harry is sitting at his desk a few minutes later cradling his cup of tea and not looking for Malfoy’s name in the morning edition of the _Daily Prophet_ that the gravity of the situation hits him. It’s not even half past ten and he’s somehow accepted a substantial donation from Draco fucking Malfoy, whose name he is still definitely _not_ searching out in the paper, and he’s talked to his tea bag — which truthfully is a bit woeful looking — and he comes to the conclusion that yes, everything has officially gone tits up.

***~*~*~***

Draco spends the rest of his week _not_ thinking about Harry bloody Potter.

Potter, who looks familiar in a way that makes Draco ache with an intensity that’s nearly crippling, and yet also manages to look different, too. He’s taller, broader — more himself somehow.

It was impossible not to notice the rugged lines of Potter’s jaw when he had Draco’s name falling out of his mouth, or the obnoxious way his hair managed to look exactly the same way it had at sixteen — messy and wild and irresistibly soft. The only thing entirely differently about Potter was his glasses, which he’d had the sense to upgrade at some point to a pair of thin gold-frame lenses that were surprisingly stylish. Draco would bet ten Galleons he hadn't picked them out himself. But even _that_ annoys Draco, who thinks it is absolutely unfair that Potter can be stylish and unkempt all at once, with glasses that make his eyes shine even brighter, and his stupid well-fitting shirt and trousers, tea stains near his collar, crumpled tea bags falling out of his pockets. Harry Potter is a fucking disaster and Draco does not find him attractive.

Potter’s entire bloody office had practically screamed _Harry Potter is here —_ from the hideous maroon armchairs by the door to the wall behind his desk that was covered in photos of Potter with his friends, Potter at school, photos of the Quidditch pitch. Even the fucking tea kettle was that disgusting shade of red from Potter’s school tie — an image Draco definitely never wanks to. The entire office was welcoming and warm, and it rankles Draco how much he is looking forward to going back again. It is obviously just so he can look around more and find something to tease Potter about. That’s all.

So Draco does not think about Potter when making his tea Monday night, and he does not think of him while listening to the news on the wireless while making dinner on Tuesday. On Wednesday he definitely does not keep his eyes peeled for a dark mop of messy hair when he invents an excuse to head into Diagon Alley, nor does he look for him when he’s forced into the Ministry of Magic on Thursday to renew his Apparition license. That would be absolutely ridiculous and Draco does not care about Potter.

Potter is simply a means to an end. Draco knows the best way to re-establish his credibility in Wizarding society is to show that he is not ashamed to be seen, so he makes it a point to go out every day, running his errands, getting lunch, meeting friends. Draco Malfoy doesn’t hide. Well, not anymore, he thinks. And he knows the best way to be seen is to make sure people cannot forget he is there, which is best done with money — something he has an endless supply of, thanks to his inheritance and wise investments. Money always speaks louder than words, something he’s found true both in the Muggle and magical worlds.

By the time Friday comes around, Draco has made a small donation to the local Wizarding primary school, had lunch at the Leaky Cauldron twice, been photographed in Diagon Alley, and made a detailed list of the best ways to use Potter’s name and charity to optimise his image.

Everything is going perfectly.

That is, until Draco pushes the door open to Harry’s office at exactly three thirty three on Friday afternoon to find Potter hunched over his desk, the buttons on his sleeves undone and the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to expose the dark hair dusted across his strong forearms. His left arm is stretched out across his desk, his right hand holding an oddly ornate quill. Potter scribbles something in the corner of his parchment before sucking on his bottom lip. There’s an ink stain on his pointer finger and his glasses are falling down to the end of his nose. Potter is entirely absorbed in what he’s reading, since he doesn’t look up at Draco’s entrance. So Draco just stands there. Draco watches. And then Draco internally curses, because perhaps Potter is a little bit attractive.

“Potter,” Draco huffs out a minute later, when the intimacy of watching the other man unnoticed becomes too much.

Potter jumps, a flush spreading across his cheeks. He shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose before pushing away from his desk. “Sorry, I uh—”

“Forgot I was coming?” Draco supplies, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course not. I just forgot the time.” Potter shrugs. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up, to be honest.”

“You might not like what I’ve had to say in the past, but I’ve never said things I didn’t mean.”

Potter looks at him intently and Draco can’t help but wonder if he does that to everyone. It makes him feel unsettled. “Your social skills are lacking, Potter. Aren’t you going to offer me tea?”

“I thought you said my tea bags were pathetic.”

“They were absolutely atrocious, like everything in here, which is why I bought my own. You may keep the extras, I don’t want to carry them around with me after I leave,” Draco answers, pulling a box of PG Tips out of his robe pocket and shoving it at Harry, ignoring the look of shock on Potter’s face.

“How do you know what kind of tea I drink?” Harry asks curiously, his fingers warmer than Draco had expected as they skim across Draco’s hand when he reaches for the box of tea.

Draco thinks of his lunch with Luna yesterday, of him casually bringing up Potter and listening to Luna prattle on about how he was doing and what kind of tea he drank. “It’s the most plebeian tea I could think of. It only makes sense it’s what you would like. It’s disgustingly common, after all,” he lies.

Potter snorts, shaking his head and walking to the kettle. “Yeah well, I’ve got some common digestives to go with it, if you want?”

“I suppose that would be acceptable, but next time do try to have something more fitting to host an important benefactor.” Draco isn't sure Potter knows he’s joking so he winks for good measure, fighting back a smile at Potter’s reaction.

Draco ignores the _fucking wanker_ he hears Potter mutter under his breath with a laugh as he sets about making them tea. When Potter comes to the table five minutes later, it’s with a tray piled high with digestives, a pot of tea, and a smile that doesn’t look entirely forced.

“I got the paperwork prepared this morning. All I need from you is a few signatures and for you to tell me how you’d like to arrange the donation.”

Draco adds a perfectly reasonable amount of sugar to his tea, watching with pursed lips as Potter adds at least three times as much to his own cup. “Do you want some tea with that sugar?”

“Oh fuck off.”

Draco snorts. “Do you talk to all your benefators with such a high level of esteem?”

“Strictly speaking, I don’t have any other benefactors.” Draco can’t read the expression on Potter’s face; it’s tight, _unsure_.

“Why not?” Draco can’t stop himself from asking.

Potter sighs. “People aren’t that keen to support equal rights initiatives, it seems.”

“Even when asked by the Saviour?” Draco asks, finding that hard to believe.

Potter looks at Draco. “I think all people are a bit slow to change sometimes, wizards especially. I don’t believe it’s that most of them truly want to treat everyone as unequal, not anymore, but the laws regarding the depth of this inequality are disgustingly complicated and deep. And urging the Ministry to change those, urging the school governors to change curriculum, trying to get people to examine prejudices they don’t want to admit they’ve held — it's not exactly made me popular.”

“And yet despite your obvious frustration you still sound disgustingly optimistic about humanity,” Draco remarks, surprised at how softly the words come out.

“Most people want to be good, they just need to be given the chance,” Harry answers earnestly, staring at the plate of biscuits, though his words feel directed at Draco, all the same.

“You might be wrong about that, Potter.”

Potter looks like he wants to say something but stops himself, his features schooling themselves almost immediately as he reaches for the contract on the table in front of him. He looks uncomfortable. Draco can’t help but wonder if Potter is having second thoughts about accepting a donation from a former Death Eater. Draco shouldn’t care what Potter thinks. He’s only one person, and yet it feels a bit like a punch in the gut. “Right,” Potter says, “this is a fairly large donation, so I want to make sure you realise exactly what we do.”

Back to business as usual, Draco reminds himself at Potter’s sudden shift in tone. Fine; if he wants to be strictly professional, two can play that game.

“I have done my research on your organisation, including past events and speaking engagements as well as looking up your standings with the Ministry of Magic and conferring with several sources as to the authenticity of your charity, and it’s all been satisfactory so I am quite confident in my desire to donate.”

Potter’s shoulders, which began to tighten when Draco started, relax as he finishes. “That’s brilliant.”

Potter looks elated. Draco is tempted to kick him under the table for giving him the kind of smile usually reserved for people who save puppies and pick flowers. Draco does not want to think about what it feels like to make Potter happy. Draco tries not to scowl as he grabs the quill from Potter’s outstretched hand, signing in all the right places.

“I can’t tell you how much this means, Malfoy. Now about the distribution of—”

“I’ve just remembered that I have another pressing meeting this afternoon,” Draco blurts out, rising to stand. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut today short. I’ll just have to come back next week to discuss my ideas for the donation.”

Potter looks surprised, but he’s obviously trying to hide it as he rises out of his seat and brushes the crumbs off his hands onto the thighs of his trousers. “Of course. Thank you, Malfoy.”

Draco feels frozen, watching in disbelief as Potter’s hand stretches out towards him, flashbacks of being eleven years old and scorned — wounded pride, more than feelings — rising to the surface. Draco knows he could refuse, knows it’s likely just a formality Potter would extend to anyone, but he can’t stop the thrill he feels as his own fingers touch Potter’s. Potter’s hands are rougher than they look, with his ink-stained fingers and bitten down fingernails. His grip is firm and warm and Draco lets it last a few seconds longer than feels appropriate, but he doesn’t care.

“It was good seeing you, Potter. I’ll be in touch.” Draco doesn’t give Potter a chance to respond, just turns and practically runs to the door.

Once outside, the cold air and warm sun upon his face, the reality of the situation crashes over Draco. He cannot be attracted to Potter. Absolutely not. Potter is completely impossible, clearly stuck in his ways, and most of all, Draco cannot risk the chance that something would go wrong. He’s looking to repair his reputation, not ruin it by creating scandal with Potter.

***~*~*~***

Harry loves Sundays. Sundays are for sleeping in, for lazy mornings spent doing the crossword in the _Daily Prophet,_ for listening to the wireless while making breakfast — something Harry never bothers to do during the week when he has to go to work — and they are especially for dinners with Ron and Hermione.

Over the years, as Harry’s life has changed, Sundays are the one thing that have remained the same.

Until they don't.

Harry would never begrudge Ron and Hermione getting married, starting their family. He loves Rose and Hugo like they are his own. He spoils them rotten and comes by to visit them almost as much as he does Ron and Hermione. But as the years have gone on, and the kids have gotten older, something in Harry shifts. It starts to feel a little bit like something is missing. So Harry fills his time; he works more, and visits friends more, and looks for new hobbies.

Mostly though, he goes on pretending things are fine. Because he wants them to be. Which is how he ends up at Ron and Hermione’s for Sunday dinner, despite his desire to stay home and brood.

“Harry, _no_.” Ron looks as horrified now as he did at twelve years old when his wand backfired and he’d thrown up slugs for an hour.

Harry sighs, repeating himself for the third time that evening. “I told you already, I’ve accepted the donation. He signed the papers Friday. It’s too late to turn him down now. Which, by the way, I wouldn’t do anyway, because I need the donation. Which you know. Besides, he seemed... _different_.”

“Because he brought you tea? Honestly.” Ron snorts in disbelief.

“I don’t care about the fucking tea. For fuck’s sake, I knew I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“You tell me _everything_ , mate,” Ron points out, and Harry can’t help but crack a smile, one that Ron doesn’t return. Ron’s body is tense as he crosses his arm and slouches down in his chair. “I still don’t like it.”

“Yeah well, I’ll be sure to include a section for your opinion of my benefactors on my next form.”

Ron smiles for the first time that evening. “You should. Merlin knows I have more sense than you. Look, I just want to know why you’re so sure he’s changed?”

Harry opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut. He knows Ron is partly right and that there are valid reasons to decline the donation; their shared history, for one, as well as Malfoy’s history. And yet Harry cannot get the way Malfoy had looked at the trials out of his mind, the way he’d looked completely terrified as they’d administered the Veritaserum — the way his truths had spilled from his lips as easily as his lies always had.

Harry has never told Ron and Hermione, but he’d spent a good chunk of his time on desk duty with the Aurors looking up Malfoy, reading in detail about his sentencing and confessions, picking up his case file every few months only to see the words _Case Inactive, Current Whereabouts Unknown_ flash before his eyes every time he snuck it out of the closed case files. It’s been years since he last opened the file, but he can’t forget the way he felt reading it, as if perhaps he understood Malfoy a bit better. He’d still hated him something fierce then, resented that he’d ruined lives and been able to run away to live his own. But somewhere along the way, as Malfoy faded from his memory, so too did the pain and anger he felt when he thought about the things Malfoy had done.

The reality of seeing Malfoy after ten years can’t even compete with his imagination, not that he thought about it — not _much_ anyway.

Harry knows Ron means well, but he’s tired of defending his decision. He also has absolutely no desire to confess that he spent lunch with Luna the day before and heard all about Malfoy’s new charity cases, the ways he is apparently using his money to find his way back into everyone’s good graces. Harry knows it should bother him to realise that Malfoy’s money is only going towards his charity for his own personal gain. It’s just that Harry thinks maybe, after all these years, Malfoy deserves a second chance — even if he plans to use Harry to take it. He doesn't think acknowledging that out loud will make Ron any happier, however, so he shrugs instead.

Hermione makes a sudden noise, startling Harry from his thoughts and making her displeasure known. “I have to say, I agree with Ron.” Ron sits up straighter looking pleased before Hermione opens her mouth again and adds, “But I also agree with Harry.”

“That’s cheating. You can’t agree with both of us,” Ron grumbles.

“I most certainly can. It’s called being an adult.”

“Oi, I’m an adult!”

“You let Hugo and Rose have cake for breakfast today,” Hermione challenges, and Ron’s lip twitches up at the corner.

“That’s because I’m a _fun_ adult,” he laughs, reaching his out to find Hermione’s hand atop the table and squeezing it softly. “You like when I’m fun.”

Hermione pulls her eyes away from Harry and turns them on Ron, a familiar look of fondness on her face as a blush forms on the tip of her nose. It makes Harry’s chest ache suddenly, at the ways in which they know each other without him.

They spend the rest of the evening like that, laughing and teasing. It feels exactly like old times, back when they were eighteen and it was just them against the world. Back before kids and life and jobs and expectations got in the way.

As the evening comes to an end, Harry wants to give Ron and Hermione a bit of a parental break, so he reads Hugo and Rose their bedtime story — which turns into four stories — tucks them in, and gives them their goodnight kisses. He is halfway down the stairs before he hears a whispered, _“I just need to pee, Uncle Harry,_ ” and two minutes later Hugo is crying because, “ _I need my plushie dragon,_ ” and then there’s Rose’s sudden need to know the exact day and time Harry will come back to visit. He’s almost down the stairs again when he hears a thump and runs back to find Hugo trying to climb his bookcase to get another book.

It ends up being nearly an hour before the kids are asleep and when Harry slips quietly down the stairs into the lounge, hoping not to disturb Ron and Hermione, it’s to find them not enjoying each other’s company, but rather, fast asleep on the sofa. He leaves that night with the memory of warm hugs and tiny kisses and whispered, “ _We love you, Uncle Harry,_ ” floating through his brain, wondering why it leaves him feeling more empty than full.

***~*~*~***

The next time Draco meets with Potter to discuss his donation, he insists Potter meet him at Bowtruckle Beats, the new cafe in Diagon Alley. He tells himself it is solely because he wants the publicity of being seen with Potter, wants people to remember his name, wants to been seen doing business as equals with Harry Potter. It is definitely _not_ so he can see Potter outside of his office, so he can feel more in control of their interactions, rather than drowning in the other man’s presence.

Potter doesn’t seem to mind the short notice or the change of venue, though, and sends him a return owl almost immediately that he will meet him at noon.

The cafe turns out to be more crowded than Draco anticipated, and he’s more than a bit annoyed to find that there is nowhere for them to sit. At least until Potter shows up fifteen minutes late, his cheeks flushed and his hair windswept, and then quite suddenly there’s a prime table near the window available for them. Draco would be annoyed, except that Potter’s notoriety is working in their favour and he has no desire to complain about that.

“Nice weather today,” Potter comments as they sit.

Draco looks up at the sky and wrinkles his nose. It’s cloudy and grey like every other day in England, but he supposes he can’t fault Potter for being unsure how to start the conversation. “It is abysmal and cold, but the company isn’t too bad.”

Potter’s body stills, and Draco can almost count the individual eyelashes on Potter’s eyes as he sits motionless. “No, no it’s not,” Potter agrees, looking slightly confused by Draco’s boldness.

Draco isn’t entirely sure what he was thinking but he’s glad to have said it, unable to explain the thrill he feels at being the cause of Potter’s current smile.

Draco doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, one moment he’s reaching for the menu and the next his fingertips are brushing along Potter’s wrist. Potter’s intake of breath is audible, but Draco ignores it in favour of pretending he didn’t just touch Potter for no reason. “So what’s good here?””

Potter coughs, rubbing his jaw with his left hand before shaking his head softly. “Everything is good.”

“Everything?” Draco asks, surprised at the way the word seems laced with innuendo.

Potter nods, loosening his tie and reaching for the water in front of him. “Everything.”

A silence falls over them after that as they each pretend to read their menu for far longer than is necessary for a place with only a handful of things to choose from. The silence feels heavy, twined with something unspoken, but it isn’t awkward.

Eventually, it’s Potter who breaks the silence once their food has arrived.

“So where were you, really?” Potter asks as he opens up his ham sandwich and covers it in a pile of salty crisps.

“You can’t actually be preparing to eat that?” Draco queries, purposely ignoring Potter’s question.

Harry shrugs, taking an obscenely large bite of his sandwich and fixing Draco with a stare that looks like it’s probably meant to be serious. Unfortunately Potter’s glasses are crooked and there’s mustard on the top of his lip and all Draco can think about is licking it off.

“So?” Potter asks, picking up two of the crisps that have fallen out of his sandwich and onto his plate and popping them in his mouth. Draco watches Potter’s tongue dart out to lick the residual salt off his bottom lip and wonders when horrible manners became such a big turn on. Fucking Potter.

“I was at a nudist resort in the Bahamas,” Draco says with an air of faux casualness as he reaches for his butterbeer and wonders where the hell that one came from.

Potter splutters, choking on his sandwich as his eyebrows rise so far up his face they disappear beneath his hair completely. “You were not.”

“Was too.”

“No. No you weren’t,” Potter insists, flustered.

Draco smiles, much preferring when Potter is the one feeling out of sorts. “Why, do you have a hard time picturing me naked?”

“No, but—” Potter snaps his mouth shut, an attractive blush forming on the sides of his neck.

“So you do picture me naked?” Draco asks with a smirk.

Potter opens and shuts his mouth several times before settling on a perfectly adult retort and sticking his tongue out at Draco.

“Glad to see you’ve matured,” Draco laughs, his previous unease at his attraction melting away. This he can handle. “So about the donation,” he adds, purposely changing the subject.

Potter shakes his head, reaching across the table to steal one of Draco’s chips. “Nope, I’m not done eating. No business talk.”

“This is a business lunch,” Draco reminds him with an air of confusion.

Harry shrugs again. “You said we could have lunch and talk about the donation. You never said they had to be done at the same time. Besides, I’m hungry and Madame Trucille — she’s the owner — well, she’s a bit fond of me and I think if we play our cards right we might get an extra large serving of her treacle tart.” Potter winks at him, as if getting extra pudding is the most exciting thing that could happen to them today.

Draco spends the rest of the lunch unable to take his eyes of Potter’s mouth while he eats and wondering why the promise of an extra large serving of dessert and the sight of Potter’s eyes crinkling up in a smile feels more important than where exactly his money will be spent. It isn’t until he’s falling into bed that night, somehow desperate for a bite of treacle tart — which he doesn’t even like, for fuck’s sake — that he realises he and Potter never did get around to finalising anything.

Which of course means they need to meet _again_. Draco feigned indignance about it, but he was pretty sure the smile on his face as he’d arranged their next meeting let Potter know he wasn’t as nearly as inconvenienced as he’d tried to pretend.

The public lunch meeting had been woefully ineffective. Technically it had landed them on page three of the _Daily Prophet_ the following morning, under the headline _Malfoy Heir, Potter’s Newest Benefactor - from Heart of Ice to Heart of Gold,_ but it left Draco feeling off centre, as he’d discovered that Potter is nothing like he had expected. Potter is funny and self deprecating and far more intelligent than Draco ever imagined he might be.

Potter is also surprisingly open to all of Draco’s ideas, despite clearly having a pretty solid vision for how he wants to use the money. When Draco had suggested they spend a good chunk of the money towards targeting Pureblood prejudices and archaic patrilineal blood-heir laws — something Draco had yet to see evidence of CR.U.M.B. fighting — well, Potter had looked surprised before telling Draco it was a good idea. Potter’s ideas until now had focused mostly on adolescents, and while Draco recognises where he is coming from, he’d tactfully suggested gearing more information towards the older generations who have more power to affect legislation.

Unfortunately they’d gotten distracted when an unbelievably large slice of treacle tart was set in front of Potter, and somehow not a word of business had been spoken of again. Draco resolves that the next time they meet they will absolutely stick to business, which clearly means it will have to happen in Potter’s office again.

Draco just needs to stay focused.

And perhaps flirt. Just a little bit. Just one more time. Just to get it out of his system.

***~*~*~***

“Potter.”

Harry jerks his head up, somehow still surprised to hear Malfoy’s voice even though he is expecting him.

“Afternoon, Malfoy.” Harry stands up, moving to cross the room, and holds his hand out.

Malfoy looks at it and smirks. “You don’t need to shake my hand every time we meet, you know. Unless you’re just desperate to touch me, in which case I’m more than willing to make that happen.”

Harry feels the heat spread across his cheeks, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “Don’t be an arse.” Harry huffs out a breath, his resolve to keep it professional wavering.

“Why Potter, you wound me. My arse is one of my best assets.” Malfoy’s voice holds no unfamiliar tone, but the smirk on his face looks playful instead of arrogant and it sends Harry's heart racing.

“Didn’t know anything could wound you.”

Malfoy’s jaw tightens as he walks closer to Harry. “You don’t know a lot about me.”

“I know you spent the last ten years on a chicken farm in Ireland,” Harry answers with a straight face, tempted to stand on tip toes just so he can close that inch or so height difference between them.

The tension in Malfoy’s face lessens as he cracks a smile. “Now where did you hear something so ridiculous? It was an alpaca farm and it was in Ecuador.”

Harry can’t help it; he laughs. “Where were you, really?”

Malfoy tilts his head to the side as if studying him. “I was learning to surf in Australia.”

“You don’t know how to surf!” Harry tries to picture all of Malfoy’s pale skin shining in the sun, tries to picture his body balancing atop a surfboard the same way he flies a broom — confident and full of grace. On second thought, Harry almost thinks it could be be true.

“How can you be so sure?” Malfoy asks, suddenly far too close to Harry. Harry wonders how he never noticed that Malfoy’s eyelashes are so pale they’re barely visible, or that he has a single freckle near the corner of his mouth.

“The same way I know you’re a decent person. Because I can see through lies.”

“Touché, Potter,” Malfoy says softly.

It isn't until Harry clears his throat that Malfoy steps away, moving towards Harry’s desk, which is covered in parchments and articles. He picks up the one that Harry had been reading about Muggle LGBTQ laws. “Been busy?”

Harry shrugs his shoulders lightly. “I’m always busy.”

“Too busy to have fun?” Malfoy asks.

“I have fun.”

“Fun or _fun_?” Malfoy asks suggestively, lifting an eyebrow.

Harry tries to remember the last time his Friday nights included anything besides the telly, takeaway, or building forts with Rose and Hugo. “I have fun,” he insists again, but it sounds weak, even to his ears.

Malfoy hums his agreement; Harry can’t help but feel like Malfoy knows he is lying, like his silence is somehow louder than his words would have been.

“I just have one page left for you to sign, agreeing to the terms we outlined for your donation, and then you’ll technically be done.”

“Of course. The money.”

If Harry didn’t know better he’d swear a bit of offence flashed across Malfoy’s face.

“Where do I sign?” Malfoy questions abruptly, his teasing tone replaced with one of formality — a tone Harry finds he doesn’t particularly like.

Harry pushes aside his thoughts, reminding himself that Malfoy is only doing this for the publicity. “It’s right here,” he mumbles, his side pressing into Malfoy's stomach as he leans across him to grab the parchment off the corner of the desk.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything as he picks up the quill and signs his name in an exaggerated elegant style. “I suppose that’s everything, then.”

“You’re welcome to come back any time,” Harry offers, unable to explain to himself why he says it.

“Thanks. I’ll see you around, Potter.” Malfoy looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't, exiting the office without another word and leaving Harry standing there wondering why he cares if Malfoy ever returns.

Harry spends the next week glancing up hopefully every time the door creaks open, a confused sense of disappointment welling up inside of him every time he realises Malfoy isn’t coming back.

It’s another week before Harry stops looking up at every noise, and another week after that before he stops hoping.

He’d known what Malfoy was after when it all began, so he can't quite understand why it hurts just the same.

***~*~*~***

“Draco Malfoy, you are a fucking coward.” Pansy’s voice cuts through his thoughts like a knife, making him drop the card in his hands.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you even get in?” Draco groans, eyeing Pansy with a frown. He’d thought for sure he’d shut his Floo off. He hadn’t even heard anyone come through it.

“Details, darling. Your Floo access password was impossibly easy to figure out. After that it was just one quick message to the Floo Authority to explain that my poor, dear boyfriend had accidently locked me out of our Floo and I needed it turned back on immediately. Those idiots at the Ministry will believe anything,” Pansy mutters, plucking the glass of wine out of Draco’s left hand and draining it in one go as she drops down onto the sofa beside him.

“So tell me why you’re sitting in your living room moping about—”

“I’m not moping!” Draco lies as he wraps his dressing gown around himself tighter to hide the fact that he’s wearing his pyjamas at seven o’clock on a Saturday night.

Pansy snorts, reaching for the bottle of wine on the side table and pouring the remaining bottle into her glass. “You’ve been a pain in the arse for weeks, ever since you spent all that time with Potter. I know you like him, so don’t bother lying,” Pansy insists, holding up her hand as if to silence him. “I also know you got an invitation to that Buy A Date With Harry Potter Auction that’s happening tomorrow. So why aren’t you going?”

Draco huffs, a strange sort of gratefulness and annoyance competing inside of him at the knowledge of how well Pansy knows him, of how much he missed her while he was gone. “Well for fuck’s sake, it sounds like you know everything, so why don’t you tell me?”

The second the words are out of his mouth Draco regrets them, because Pansy gets a look on her face that Draco knows all too well. “Oh darling, I’m so glad you asked. You’re not going because you’re holding on to some delusion that you don’t want to fuck Potter until he can’t remember his own name.”

“Fucking harridan.”

Pansy turns up her nose, purposely ignoring his comment and making a dramatic show of drinking the last of Draco’s wine. “You also want more than that. Fuck knows why, but you _like_ him.”

“I do not! He is a complete disaster. He has ink stains on his fingers and reads about Muggle laws for fun and has old tea bags coming out of his pockets and he eats treacle tart in the middle of the day, and—”

“And you’re in love with him,” she finishes.

Draco balks. “I am not.”

Pansy sets her empty glass down on the side table, pulling her legs beneath her as she turns to face Draco. “No, you’re not. Not _yet_. But you could be.”

“I—” But Draco stops. He’s always been able to lie to everyone, even to himself, but not to Pansy. “Maybe.”

Draco knows it’s pointless to deny it. He also knows it's pointless to go to the charity auction. He’s pretty sure Potter only invited him because of Draco’s money, especially after his parting comments after they’d finalised Draco’s donation. Draco makes a point of flaunting his money, so he isn’t sure why the idea that someone wants him for that alone bothers him.

“It doesn’t matter if I might possibly think Potter is slightly less than horrible. Getting involved with him would be a disaster. I came back to restore the Malfoy name, not to make moon eyes at Potter.”

Pansy taps her nails on the edge of the sofa, her eyes never leaving Draco’s. “Fine, then we’ll go for a laugh. I suppose I could manage to muster up an outfit on such short notice — but you’re paying for it, mind you — and I’ll allow you to take me as your date. We will go, drink all their champagne and make fun of everyone drooling over Potter’s arse and find out what sad excuse of a witch or wizard ends up winning Potter for the night. Can you imagine someone being daft enough to pay good money to spend the evening with Potter decked out in dress robes, his attention on them and them alone? Can you imagine an entire night spent just with Potter?”

Draco knows she’s playing him but he can't be arsed to care. “I suppose it has been ages since we had a night out together. And the invitation did afford me a plus one.”

Pansy’s lips turn up in a smile. “Smashing.” Then Pansy moves to stand, appraising Draco once more. “And Draco, do yourself a favour and get some new robes before tomorrow. Just because you’re not bidding on Potter doesn’t mean you can’t make him want to look at you.”

“I suppose just looking never hurt anyone,” Draco agrees.

 _Looking_.

Just looking. Sure. Draco can do that. Definitely. He’s always had impeccable self control, except where Potter was concerned. But they’re older now — and okay, maybe Potter is fitter and a lot less of a pain in the arse — but Draco can definitely control himself around the other man.

“Tomorrow, then. Pick me up at eight.” And with that Pansy sends him a wink before heading towards his Floo and disappearing back to her own flat. Draco spends the rest of the night wondering what he wants more — to look at Potter, or for Potter to look at him.

***~*~*~***

“Harry, stop fussing with the bow tie! I told you it looks fine.”

Harry sighs as Hermione’s hands come up to straighten it, and he drops his hands uselessly at his sides and looks down at himself. “I feel like a right tosser.”

“You look very handsome.”

“I look like—”

“You look like you’re going to earn a lot of money for C.R.U.M.B. tonight, is what you look like, mate,” Ron adds, clapping Harry on the back. It’s probably meant to be an encouraging gesture, but it only serves to remind him why he’s currently dressed in some sort of hybrid Muggle tuxedo robe that Hermione helped him custom order.

The last time Harry remembers having to dress up like this had been at the Yule Ball back in fourth year, and while his current version is far better than his old dress robes — he’s rather fond of being able to have pockets — he still feels entirely uncomfortable. The trousers feel too tight across his thighs and he’s not even sure if he can sit down without splitting the fabric across his chest. He rather thinks the seamstress took Hermione’s instructions to “tailor it to Harry’s body like a glove” a little too literally.

“I don’t know how the hell I let you talk me into this, Hermione.”

“Yes you do,” she retorts. “You wanted more publicity and you wanted enough money to get a second location for the Civil Rights Union of Magical Britain in Diagon Alley.” She smiles at him gently, tucking a stray lock of his hair behind his ear. “It’s just a few hours, and then... well, yes, then you’ll have to go on a date with whoever wins the auction. But after that, hopefully you’ll have enough resources to keep things going for awhile, enough resources to really effect the kind of change you want to see happen. Besides, maybe if you’re lucky a certain someone will bid on you.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harry lies, his face heating.

“Malfoy,” Ron coughs out, shoving his hands in his pockets and bouncing on his toes.

“Traitor,” Harry hisses, poking Ron in the side. “Hermione, Ron is too scared to tell you but he hates the new curtains in the kitchen.”

Ron’s mouth drops open in surprise before he grabs onto Harry and tucks him under his arm in an unfair wrestling move he hasn’t used on Harry since they were teenagers. Making matters even worse, he begins to ruffle his hair. “Don’t lie mate, I know all about that dream you had last week with—”

“Boys!” Hermione yells, and they jump apart instantly, both looking far less embarrassed than they probably should.

“Ronald Weasley, do you have any idea how long it took me to fix his hair,” she tuts, walking over to try and tame it back into some semblance of order. Harry looks at Ron out of the corner of his eyes and has to bite back a laugh at the face he’s making at him, feeling a sudden overwhelming gratefulness for Ron’s friendship, for him intuitively knowing how to break Harry out of his unease and introspection before it threatened to ruin the entire evening. “Right, well, I think that’s as good as I can do,” Hermione determines. “If we spend any longer here we’re going to be late, and I’m quite certain that wouldn’t get you the kind of attention you’re hoping for.”

“Right. So we’re actually doing this then.” Harry isn’t sure whether he’s talking to himself or his friends, but he’s pleased just the same when Ron and Hermione each take one of his arms.

“Together,” Ron says with a smile, a statement not a question, as they all Apparate directly to the ballroom together.

The second they walk through the doors, they’re assaulted by the flashing lights of multiple cameras and questions.

“Mr Potter, who are you wearing tonight?”

“Any preference on a witch or wizard winning you tonight, Harry?”

“Mr Potter, do you hope this turns into true love?”

“If all goes well, are you hoping tonight will end your streak for the Wizarding World’s most eligible bachelor eleven years running?”

“Mr Potter, show us a smile!”

“Who do you want to win the auction, Mr Potter?”

Harry falters, his chest tightening at the lights and voices assaulting him — far more attention than he is used to or comfortable with — but Ron and Hermione don’t move away, instead remaining on either side of him protectively.

“Thank you all for coming. I’m afraid I must drag Harry away as we get ready for this evening’s activities. Please everyone, take your seats and get ready for some fun.”

Harry marvels once again at Hermione’s ability to take charge of any situation and as she drags Harry away to the edge of the room to meet the Minister. Harry barely has time to glance around, eyes searching in vain for a familiar head of white-blond hair.

***~*~*~***

“Pansy, you bloody well hurry up or I’m leaving without you, you insufferable—”

Draco’s words are cut short when Pansy finally emerges from her room wearing a scandalously snug emerald green silk dress that clings to every curve of her body and shows off all her best assets. If Draco were not entirely gay, he thinks he’d probably be drooling at the sight of her.

“Well, how do I look?” she asks, doing a spin for Draco. He’s reminded suddenly of the way she’d looked in sixth year, just before Draco had broken her heart and told her he was gay. She’d cried for a week before slapping him across the face for leading her on, then hugging him tightly and whispering, _“If I can’t marry you myself, then I’ll make damn sure whoever gets you deserves you, Draco Malfoy”._

“You look stunning, as always.”

Pansy smiles brightly, holding out her hand. “Right, well let's go then. You don’t want to make us late, do you?”

Draco snorts, shaking his head and placing her hand on his extended arm.

When they step into the ballroom, Draco feels the eyes of every single person in the room turn to them. Someone is at the head of the room speaking, Potter standing just beside them, and they’ve clearly interrupted the beginning of the auction. They couldn’t possibly have arrived at a more inconvenient time.

Draco pretends he doesn’t care that they’re all whispering and staring as they cross the room. Pansy clearly doesn’t mind, walking across the room on Draco’s arm like it was her night, flicking her hair back and not showing an ounce of remorse or bashfulness.

“Right, as I was saying, the Buy a Date with Harry Potter Auction is about to begin,” the man Draco doesn’t recognise continues. “Now, before the bidding begins, let's all go over the rules for placing a bid—”

Draco tunes out the rest of the speech, turning to shoot Pansy a dirty look as they settle into the only two empty seats at a table near the very front of the stage.

“Look what you did,” Draco all but hisses, his face a mask of smiles, not betraying his thoughts.

Pansy still looks pleased with herself. “Yes, darling. Look what I did. Every single eye was on us. Every single one.” She nods her head up to the stage where, true to her word, Potter has his eyes fixed on Draco.

“ _Oh_ ,” he huffs out. Perhaps Pansy isn’t horrible after all. Fucking genius is what she is. He wonders why everyone has always underestimated her, him included sometimes.

“Pity you’re not the one up for auction tonight. I think he’d sell his soul right about now to bid on _you_.”

Draco tries not to smile, but he can’t help it, unable to take his eyes off Potter, who is indeed looking at Draco with something Draco feels all too well himself — _desire_.

“I’m still not going to bid.”

Pansy makes a noise that Draco takes to mean she doesn’t agree with him, reaching out for her glass of champagne. “Sure you’re not.”

Draco’s resolution is tested as he watches Potter take the microphone, watches the way Potter’s initial nervousness is instantly transformed into confidence as Potter speaks about his charity, about equality, about his vision for the future. Potter is powerful, commanding, and fit as fuck.

As the bidding begins, Draco can hardly pay attention, because he can't take his eyes off Potter's clothing — some mix of Muggle and Wizarding fashion, impeccably tailored to his body. He's wearing an almost iridescent midnight blue tuxedo and a low-cut waistcoat, with an elegant looking cape trailing down his back. His trousers look practically spelled on and he's even got silver cufflinks on his French cuffs. Draco is exceptionally glad he’d chosen to wear traditional Wizarding Dress robes for the occasion as he feels his cock twitch in appreciation. Potter looks utterly fuckable. But the most eye-catching thing is the small bisexual flag pin stuck in the pocket of his dinner jacket near a coordinating purple silk pocket square. It occurs to Draco then that Potter’s entire outfit was obviously meant to attract attention, to show off his body, to make sure not a single person could forget who he was _or_ his sexuality.

“Relax, darling... bidding has only just started,” Pansy whispers, covering Draco’s hand with her own. It isnt until that moment he realises he has a death grip on his napkin.

It takes Draco a few minutes to catch up with the flurry of action, not at all surprised to see that almost everyone is bidding, at least in the beginning. Nearly every witch and wizard throws their wands up as the bidding jumps from fifty to a hundred Galleons in a matter of seconds.

After that, the bidding pool slowly drops, though Draco notices the vast majority of people still look interested. If there is something on Potter’s mind, he doesn’t show it, gracing the entire room with a winning smiling and curt nods every time someone bids.

“Wonder if Potter will put out,” Pansy says quietly, ignoring the Witch next to her, who lets out a scandalised gasp. Draco spills his champagne and Pansy looks at Draco with a soft laugh falling off her red lips. “Don’t pretend you don’t know at least half the people in this room think that’s what they’re bidding on.”

Draco tries not to stab the filet mignon as it's set in front of him, quite certain now that this was a piss poor idea.

Pansy continues on with her remarks, giving her play by play on every single person that bids and guessing what they might want to get from Potter. Each time, Draco feels his blood pressure rising at the idea of someone else touching Potter.

As the bidding gets higher, Pansy’s remarks get worse.

“Six hundred Galleons,” a witch in the front row shouts, her wand held aloft to signal her bid. Draco grumbles. He recognises her immediately.

“Victoria Chaucer,” Pansy whispers as if reading his mind. “The new owner of the Appleby Arrows. Word has it, the only thing she likes more than watching fit men ride brooms is riding _them_.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Draco, who has to force himself not to raise his right hand in a bid.

“Seven hundred Galleons,” a wizard to his right shouts, and before Draco can turn his head to see who it is, Pansy is already speaking.

“Oh now isn’t this interesting. Barnabus Cuffe, middle-aged editor of the _Daily Prophet_. Highly respected and has been dying to get the scoop on Potter for years. But my sources tell me his little known vices include imported cigars, buying his sources, and watching his wife fuck other men — _especially_ men with black hair.”

“Who the fuck are your sources?” Draco hisses, feeling his face heat in indignation. No one else is supposed to be obsessed with Potter except him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Draco tries to remain calm, to not think about what whoever wins might get up to on their date, but all of that shatters the moment a familiar hand three tables over shoots up into the air.

“One thousand Galleons,” Blaise bids, turning and winking at Draco over his shoulder.

Draco feels like he’s been hexed, his blood running ice cold and he shoots a look at Pansy that would have most people running. “You didn’t tell me Blaise fucking Zabini was going to be here.”

Draco thinks back to the last time they’d seen each other, the night before Draco had left England. They’d fucked one last time before parting on bitter terms. All the things that had made Blaise a fantastic Slytherin and friend — his cunning, his ability to detach himself from things emotionally, and mostly his ability to get into anyone’s pants — had made him a horrible boyfriend. He also knows that Blaise would absolutely have ulterior motives for bidding on Potter, because there is not a chance in hell Blaise has any interest in being philanthropic.

“Oh dear me, did I forget to mention that Blaise has been back for a few weeks? Apparently Potter sent out invitations to everyone who’d been in our year, as a show of good faith. Well, you know once Blaise got his he couldn’t help but leave the south of France. He said he was tired of the sun, but between you and me, I think he wanted a little sun and a little more rain, maybe some thunder and _lightning_ ,” she divulges, and Draco has his hand gripped around his wand in his robe pocket before he can think twice.

“Ten thousand Galleons,” he yells, and the silence that over takes the room is nearly deafening. Every single eye is on him as he raises his wand in the air to confirm his bid, but Draco cares about one thing and one thing only — the green eyes and surprised smile being sent his way.

The Auctioneer seems almost as shocked by the bid as Potter. He makes several attempts to get someone else to beat Draco’s bid, but clearly no one is as arse over tits for Potter as he is, and Draco breaths a heavily sigh of relief when he’s officially declared the night’s winner.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur, with the Auctioneer confirming his bid and Potter attempting to thank him but immediately being hounded by the press and the Minister and every single person who lost the auction who is still desperate for their moment alone with Potter.

But Draco doesn’t mind. Draco can be patient. He’s waited more than ten years for this. What’s a few more days until their date?

So Draco slowly sips his champagne and watches. He waits, as the rest of the world tries to steal a bit of Potter for themselves, content in the knowledge that even if it can only be once, Potter will be his and his alone.

***~*~*~***

Harry eyes himself in the mirror above his fireplace one last time, attempting to get his hair to lie flat but giving up when the mirror not-so-subtly suggests a Glamour instead.

He looks down at the note in his hand that Malfoy had sent him the day after the auction, reading it for at least the fifth time that day alone.

__

> _Potter,_
> 
> _I’m looking forward to our date this Friday evening. Meet me in front of Bowtruckle Beats at seven o’clock sharp. Black tie attire._
> 
> _-Draco Malfoy_
> 
> _P.S. Don’t bother trying to do anything with your hair, it's hopeless._

__  
Harry can’t help but laugh to himself, folding the note in half and setting it on the side table. Something about the jibe makes him feel more comfortable, more at ease despite the weird sort of nervous energy he’s felt bubbling near the tips of his fingers all day.

His clothes feel too tight, the air too heavy. He feels a sort of unease as he reminds himself — not for the first time since the auction — that this isn’t a real date. Not really.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to send the invitation to Malfoy, especially not after he hadn’t heard from him for weeks. He’d realised, of course, all Malfoy had been after was a bit of publicity. Hermione had encouraged him, told him to send the letter off and maybe Malfoy would empty his vaults for a bit of attention. But that hadn’t been what was in Harry’s mind as he’d scribbled Malfoy’s name across the front of the letter and sent it away with his own owl.

Harry had wanted to see the other man again, to find out if his biting wit, casual flirtations, and apparent goodwill were really all an act, or if Malfoy had changed. Harry hated to admit how much he’d enjoyed talking with Malfoy, hearing his ideas on ways to urge the Wizengamot to loosen patrilineal and blood magic laws. He’d been intelligent and well informed and far more invested in where his donation was going than Harry expected. Which had somehow made his virtual silence afterward all the worse. It simply hammered into Harry the fact that he had been used.

Yet all the same, he’d been unable to resist sending the invitation, hoping Malfoy might show up, hoping he might bid. For his charity, yes, but mostly for Harry. But throughout the auction Malfoy had looked vaguely uninterested, almost bored — at least until Blaise Zabini had made a bid. Harry could only chalk Draco’s massive bid immediately afterwards to a surge of old house competitiveness, and as much as he wanted to believe Malfoy had bid solely to spend time with Harry, he couldn’t help but think his behaviour that night suggested differently.

Harry adjusts the pride pin on his tuxedo jacket pocket before glancing at his watch — it reads six fifty five. With nothing left to keep him home any longer, he wraps his fingers around his wand and Apparates directly to the front of the cafe. It takes him a second, as it usually does with Apparition, to orient himself before he notices the handful of photographers and reporters milling around. As soon as they notice Harry, the flashes and questions come rapid fire and Harry is two seconds away from Disapparating on the spot when strong fingers wrap around his bicep.

“I think they want a story,” an all-too-familiar voice whispers. Harry feels at war with the emotions invoked by Malfoy’s voice, warm and breathy in his ear. It makes him _want,_ but heisall too aware that a story is what everyone seems to want from him, including the other man. Harry feels disappointment swelling within when Malfoy continues, “Too bad they aren’t going to get one from us.”

Harry only has a moment to wonder what Malfoy means by that before the intimate — and always slightly unsettling — tug of someone else’s magic washes over him as Malfoy Disapparates them both. Harry flounders at the unexpected sensation, grasping at Malfoy’s forearm hard enough to bruise.

“Easy there, Potter,” Malfoy says softly, and there is something in his eyes that Harry finds himself unwilling to examine too closely lest he get too hopeful about what it could mean.

“The polite thing to do is ask someone before you Side-Along them somewhere,” Harry grumbles, releasing Malfoy and rubbing his sweaty palms on his legs, hoping Malfoy doesn’t notice.

“Then it wouldn’t have been much of a surprise, would it?” Malfoy looks almost nervous.

Harry ignores Malfoy in favour of taking in their surroundings. They’re near a bridge, the edges of the riverway lined with trees and boats, with buildings that are unmistakably Haussmannian. He’s pretty sure it’s the Seine, though he’s never actually seen it.

“Where are we?” he blurts out, not wanting to admit he’s never actually been out of England before. The Dursleys had never taken Harry anywhere that might allow him a bit of fun, and as an adult he’d certainly thought about it plenty of times, but had never taken the time to actually travel. In the distance he can see the Eiffel Tower glittering brightly. Harry isn’t sure why it shocks him so much. International Apparition is uncommon, but certainly not unheard of, though it definitely requires a more than adequate control of one’s magic and an absolutely precise mental image of the place you want to go. Which means wherever Malfoy is taking him is somewhere he’s been before, probably more than once. Harry finds he likes that idea. He likes it a lot.

“Pont de l’Alma,” Malfoy answers, his voice calm and easy. He looks relaxed, as if he’s always belonged here. Perhaps he has. Harry feels the distance between them — the ways in which he does not know the other man — more acutely now than ever before.

Harry wants to like it all, but he’s never felt very comfortable with being surprised and finds he’s unable to keep the distrust out of his voice when he speaks. “ _Why_?”

“My god, you make everything so difficult, Potter. I told you, it was a surprise.” Malfoy holds his arm out, and it takes Harry a few seconds before it occurs to him that Malfoy means for him to take it. Deciding he’s got nothing to lose — except maybe his heart and a bit of self respect — he takes Malfoy’s arm and follows him down the pavement, quashing his disappointment as they walk away from the Eiffel Tower and not towards it.

They walk in a surprisingly companionable silence for only a few minutes before turning a corner, and what Harry sees has him stopping dead in his tracks. Harry isn’t sure what he expected, but this isn’t it. The street is lined with buildings that make Harry feel like he’s in one of the French films Hermione loves, the pavement filled with people walking and laughing; it feels like a world completely removed from his life in England.

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Malfoy agrees, looking pleased with himself, his eyes appraising Harry. “There’s a restaurant just down this street that I think you’ll love — Le 39V, the best in Paris.”

“Is that why I had to wear this stupid tux?” Harry jokes, his eyes appreciating for the first time that night the way Malfoy looks in a Muggle tuxedo — though his seems a step up from Harry’s, with a cummerbund and emerald cufflinks. Harry’d been so preoccupied with where they were going and why, he hadn’t taken a moment to allow himself to appreciate the way Malfoy's usually slicked back hair is falling into his eyes, the way his lean body looks in a well-fitting dusky grey tuxedo, or the way the long line on his neck looks disappearing beneath a starched collar and perfectly tied bow tie. Malfoy looks fucking _good_.

“That was just for me.” Malfoy’s face is relaxed, his tone playful.

Harry’s stomach flips and he allows himself the pleasure of tightening his hold on Malfoy’s arm. It might be only one night, but there’s no reason he can’t enjoy it, especially in a place where no one knows him — where no one knows either of them.

Malfoy points out a few landmarks and storefronts as they stroll down the pavement, and Harry finds himself forgetting that this isn’t a real date, because it sure as hell feels like one. When they get to the restaurant Harry is not surprised to find that it is just as posh as he’d expected, given that it’s Malfoy, and he now understands why he’s wearing a tux.

Harry barely notices Malfoy whispering something in French to the waiter before they are promptly seated at a table near the window. The entire place is modern, with sleek black tables and chairs and an entire wall of windows that afford Harry the perfect view of Paris and the Champs Elysee.

“Would you like me to order for you?” Draco asks once they’ve taken their seats, and Harry startles, not even having realised the menus were in front of them.

“I’m pretty sure I can manage that for myself,” he insists automatically, regretting his words the second he lifts the menu and discovers the entire thing is written in French.

Harry ignores the man that comes to their table, holding his menu up in front of his face and wondering what the hell he’s looking at.

“Bonsoir messieurs, puis-je vous proposer la carte des vins?”

“Nous prendrons une bouteille de votre meilleur blanc.” The words practically roll off Draco’s tongue, smooth as silk and just as alluring. Harry groans quietly, peeking at Malfoy over the top of his menu. He didn’t know Malfoy could speak French. He also has no idea what Malfoy has said, but he’s pretty sure he could listen to him speak like that all night.

The waiter nods to Malfoy before walking away and leaving them alone once more.

“Did you decide what you want?” Draco asks him a moment later, and Harry sighs heavily, plopping the menu onto the table.

“I give up. You can order for me.”

“What do you like?”

Harry ponders this for only a moment. “Surprise me.”

Malfoy’s lip twitches subtly as he plucks the menu from in front of Harry. “How do you know I’ll pick something you like?”

Harry weighs the options in front of him and decides that, fuck it, if this is as close to a real date as he might ever get with Malfoy, why not make the most of it? “You seem to be doing alright in that department so far.”

Malfoy looks positively victorious.

The air seems rife with possibilities, the hum of people around them dulling to a near silence as Harry’s attention focuses solely on the lines of Malfoy’s face and the way his tongue looks as it darts out to swipe across his bottom lip. Harry hardly even notices the waiter coming back to take their order until Draco begins to speak again. “Nous prendrons le foie gras de canard, puis le homard bleu de casier et ses légumes de saisons. Oh, et des gougères en amuse-bouche.”

Once the waiter is gone Malfoy fixes his eyes on Harry again, his stare almost unrelenting. “So, is it what you expected?”

“Not even close.” Harry knocks his foot against Malfoy’s under the table, suppressing a shiver when Malfoy presses their ankles together.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Malfoy questions.

Harry can’t help but grin, unable to hold it in. “That remains to be seen.”

Malfoy’s returning smile sends a thrill of pleasure through Harry, and he’s unwilling to admit why it pleases him so much to have been the one to put Malfoy’s smile there. They make pleasant small talk after that, trading flirtations and innuendo until the food is set down before them. Harry stares at his plate for all of two seconds before blurting out, “What is this?”

Malfoy laughs, a real, honest-to-goodness laugh. Harry’s pretty sure it's the first time he’s ever heard him do it like _that_ — as if something inside of him was uncontainable, and Harry finds himself laughing too.

“It’s delicious, is what it is,” Malfoy insists once they’ve both regained their composure. Harry isn’t so sure. It’s not even outlandish; just a plate of little round balls and another plate with something round that Harry can only assume is supposed to be eaten with the bread beside it. “Scared, Potter?”

“Not fucking likely,” Harry asserts, taking a huge bite of Merlin knows what.

Malfoy looks expectant, the side of his ankle moving up Harry’s calf in a most distracting manner. “Well?”

It’s unexpectedly simple and delicious. Harry is pretty sure it might be one of the most delicious things he’s ever tasted. “It was all right,” he shrugs, trying to hide his smile as he reaches for another one and pops the entire thing in his mouth in one go.

“Uncultured heathen,” Malfoy snorts, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he eats his own meal.

By the time they’ve finished eating and made their way through two bottles of wine, Harry feels more than a little relaxed; he feels amazing. Malfoy, as it turns out, is exceptionally good at flirting, and Harry is pretty sure he’s been half hard since he finished his first glass of wine — which was was a lot better than the Firewhisky he usually drinks at the Hogs Head, something which had made Malfoy laugh even harder than the first time when Harry blurted it out.

“Do you want dessert?” Malfoy asks, the tip of his pointer finger sliding across Harry's hand as he curls it around his empty wine glass.

Harry’s chest aches. He wants so much in that moment. Wants Malfoy’s laughter and his smiles. Wants his insults and his barbs and his challenging intellect. Wants his hands on his body and his mouth on his. He knows he’s not drunk enough to blame his internal babbling on the alcohol, but he has to know, before he lets things go any further. “Why did you bid on me?”

Malfoy pulls his hand away and Harry’s stomach plummets. He’s fucked it up, ruined whatever haze of a fantasy world they were living in. He’d known it was too good to be true.

“I know it’s been a long time, but I want to make one thing very clear, Potter. I don’t do things I don’t want to. Not anymore. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Harry nods, his head spinning a bit.

“I bid on you because I wanted _you_.”

Harry’s heart does a double take at Draco’s confession, beating so hard it feels like it might jump right out of his chest. Disbelief threatens to cast a shadowy cloud on the elation he feels, but with Draco sitting before him looking so earnest, Harry can do nothing but believe him, pushing aside the surprise he feels and letting the truth of Draco’s words wash over him.

“I think I’d like dessert,” Harry forces out, the words heavy on his tongue. Malfoy looks disappointed at Harry’s change of subject, but it doesn’t last very long. “Could we have it at your place?”

Malfoy’s eyes snap up to Harry’s, darkened with desire and alight with anticipation. “I think we can manage that.”

Harry’s entire body thrums with awareness, everything narrowing down to the way Malfoy’s lips move as he speaks to the waiter, to the way his fingers look gripping the pen as signs the bill.

It’s not until they’re walking out of the restaurant that Harry’s earlier hesitancy returns in full force. As soon as they’re back on the pavement, the busy sounds flooding his senses and the chill in the air assaulting him, he falters. He’s shocked out of his haze of desire enough to need to be sure before they do anything else. “This isn’t...it’s not just about the auction right?” he blurts out.

Malfoy turns to Harry, his hand reaching up to cup the side of Harry’s face. Harry can’t help it, his eyelids flutter shut and his mouth falls open at the touch, so unexpected and so wanted.

“No, _Harry_ ,” he whispers, and Harry can’t top the involuntary shudder at the sound of his name falling from Malfoy - from _Draco’s_ lips - like that. “This is about us.”

Every bit of reservation leaves Harry and before he can think too hard about what he’s doing he’s leaning forward, capturing Draco’s lips in a kiss and letting himself revel in the knowledge that Draco wants him just as much.

***~*~*~***

As Draco and Potter appear in the middle of Draco’s bedroom, Draco feels exceedingly grateful he’d planned ahead and brought a Portkey back to his flat with him. Not that he is particularly drunk, just a little tipsy really, but the reality of having Potter’s warm lips on his own after dinner had proven too much for Draco to be able to concentrate enough to get them back home.

“Fuck, you taste good,” Potter murmurs before his lips are on Draco’s again, warm and insistent and just as demanding as Potter himself. It’s intoxicating.

“I want you,” Draco murmurs against Potter’s lips.

Potter laughs softly, the lines besides his eyes crinkling as he nudges his nose against Draco’s cheek. “I’d gathered that much. I want you, too, in case it wasn’t obvious.”

“As obvious as a Bludger to the head,” Draco groans as Potter’s capable hands start to undo his clothing. Draco tries to keep up, but Potter is insistent, ridding Draco of every single article of clothing first.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware how sex usually works, but typically _both_ people are naked.” Draco says, pleased he manages that level of coherence.

Harry grins, walking Draco back to his bed as if it was his own. He looks comfortable in Draco’s room. “Mmm, I know. Trust me. But... I want to taste you first. Can I?”

Draco blinks, cock twitching at the idea of Potter’s mouth on it. “You want to—”

“Yes. Please,” Harry begs softy, tossing his jacket on the floor before taking off his bow tie and dropping it to the floor swiftly adding the rest of his clothes to the pile. Draco crawls back on the bed, watching with appreciation as Potter finishes undressing, his strong thighs and vast expanses of unblemished skin on display. Draco likes the dark hair dusting across his chest, the smooth, not-quite-flat planes of his soft stomach and the the dark tufts of curls nestled above his cock. Draco wants to touch him, taste him, but before he can, Potter is crawling onto the bed.

“Turn the fuck over,” Potter laughs, his strong hands on Draco’s thighs, finger tips trailing down them.

Turn over. Potter can’t mean what Draco is thinking. “I thought—”

Potter seems to understand, crawling over Draco’s body and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “Yeah, I want to taste your cock, too. But right now I really want to eat your arse. Can I please?” Potter looks a bit above him, face flushed with arousal and hair falling into his eyes. Draco’s not sure he’s ever had anyone beg to rim him as if the act were for them, and the spike of desire that courses through him makes him feel drunk.

“Yes.”

Potter wastes no time, crawling off Draco and helping him turn over, reaching for an extra pillow and shoving it underneath Draco’s hips and he moves behind him. “Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Draco agrees as Potter’s strong hands run across his back and down to his arse, massaging his cheeks before pulling them open and holding them like that. Potter’s fingers are rough and calloused as they glide along his skin.

Potter doesn't waste any time, nudging at Draco’s arse with his face and dragging his tongue along the puckered skin of his arsehole. Draco keens, his hands digging into the sheets as Potter laps and sucks and licks, making the same sort of delighted humming noises he makes when he eats treacle tart, which somehow makes Draco even harder. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to watch Potter eat that again without wanting to ruin him.

Draco’s toes curl with pleasure. “Potter, fuck — don't stop.”

Potter pulls back, his breath hot against Draco’s hole. “I hadn’t planned on it.” Draco doesn’t even need to be able to see him, can hear the amusement in his voice.

“I had, uh—” Draco groans, his words sticking in his throat as Potter’s tongue slides inside his body. This feels so good and he doesn’t want Potter to stop but he also doesn’t want to come like this. Not yet. “Other ideas.”

Potter hums, thrusting his tongue in and out as his hand slides between Draco’s body and the bed to palm at Draco’s leaking cock. Draco whines when Potter removes his mouth, but then Potter is crawling up his body, pressing him down into the mattress and rubbing his cock in between Draco’s arse cheeks.

“Fuck, you taste good. I want to feel you. Want you to fuck me,” Potter whispers in his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and grazing his tongue along it.

The idea of being inside of Potter, of pressing him back into the bed and thrusting in until he’s balls-deep inside of Potter’s arse, has Draco shuddering. “Can’t fuck you if you don’t move.”

Potter laughs, an amused, genuine laugh as he rolls off Draco to collapse on the bed beside him. Draco lifts himself onto his elbows and turns to peek at Potter, whose chest is heaving, his black hair splayed across Draco’s crisp white sheets and his eyes glazed over. Draco can’t stop himself from reaching over, and plucking Potter’s glasses off, setting them on the floor before dragging his knuckles across the tender skin beneath Potter’s eyes.

Potter’s mouth falls open in a silent plea. “ _Draco_.”

Something in Draco shatters with that one word, and whatever bit of himself he was holding back feels as if it combusts and swirls inside of him, threatening to explode if he doesn’t find a release. “Fuck, I’m going to make you _mine_.”

Draco can barely even think about what he’s doing as he straddles Potter’s body, pinning him to the bed and searching Potter’s eyes for some hint of turning back, as if needing to be certain that he isn't the only one about to lose control.

Potter’s chin juts out, his eyes challenging as he reaches out to tangle his hands in Draco’s hair. “Do it.”

Draco lets out a soft growl, crashing their lips together and kissing Potter as if his life depends on it. Kisses him as if there are no secrets.

He kisses Potter as if they belonged to each other.

Potter responds beautifully, arching beneath him as Draco kisses his way down Potter’s chest, lavishing attention to his dusty pink nipples and dragging his nails across the hair on his chest as his mouth moves lower, tongue swirling into Potter’s belly button as Draco wandlessly casts a lubrication charm, rubbing his fingers together before pressing the first one inside of Potter’s arse.

“Fuck,” Potter shouts, his heels digging into the mattress as he spreads his legs wider for Draco. “That’s, god — more.”

Draco exhales, resting his head against the inside of Potter’s thigh, delighting in the soft skin and thin dusting of hair as he rubs his cheek against the muscles in Potter’s thighs, inhaling Potter’s musky scent as he slides in another finger, twisting and scissoring them. Potter huffs, whining as he lifts his hips and brings his impressive cock even closer to Draco’s face. Draco wants to taste him, wants to feel Potter’s fingers slide into his hair as he sucks him off, but he knows if he starts now he won’t be able to stop until Potter comes screaming his name, and he wants, _needs_ , to fuck him.

“Ready... god, I’m ready. _Please_.” Potter sounds wrecked already and it still isn’t enough; it won't ever be enough. If Draco had thought he could have Potter once and get him out of his system, he was sorely mistaken.

And when Draco finally moves up the bed, presses Potter’s knees back, bends him in half, and slides in as deep as he can, he knows that he might be the one inside of Potter at the moment, but Potter has clawed his way inside of Draco — inside of his heart and mind.

Potter fucks like he lives; he is unashamed of the things he wants as he begs — _harder, faster, more, put your hands on me_ — and Draco fucking loves it. He slides in and out, snapping his hips and pressing Potter’s hands above his head as he ups the pace. Potter looks amazing, his eyes blown wide and his face flushed as Draco’s name spills from his lips and Draco has never wanted anything more than he wants Potter in that moment.

“Fuck, Potter, the things you do to me,” Draco groans, shaking his head to dislodge the hair falling into his eyes, before licking the sweat that drips down on his upper lip.

Potter’s breath catches in his throat as he wiggles his hips, wrapping his legs around Draco’s waist and digging his heels into Draco’s arse, trying to pull him in even closer. “Tell me, god, tell me.”

Draco doesn’t hesitate to say the words, for once in his life knowing exactly what — or _who_ — he wants. “You make me feel crazy. I want to ruin you for anyone else ever again because I’ve been ruined for anyone else for a long time, and it’s only fair I do the same to you.”

“Fuck,” Harry whimpers, linking his fingers with Draco’s and lifting his head. He doesn’t need to ask; Draco knows what he wants, and he leans down to join their lips, kissing Potter and practically inhaling the desperate sounds the other man makes as Draco thrusts and then stills, pleasure coiling in his legs and in the pit of his belly, and as his orgasm hits him he keeps on kissing Potter, as if he could stop even if he wanted to, and fuck, he _never_ wants to stop kissing him. Potter groans louder, and Draco can feel Potter wrapping his own hand around his cock, giving himself several shaky jerks before screaming his release against Draco’s cheeks, as he comes between them in heavy spurts.

Draco can’t stop the groan that falls from his mouth as he rolls off Potter, collapsing back onto the bed and throwing his arm over his eyes, almost too overcome to look at Potter, feeling as if he’s laid not just his body but his soul bare.

As the bed shifts beside him, Draco presses him arm tighter over his face, grateful he won't have to watch Potter leave, his chest aching at the realisation that Potter is going to simply walk away after all this. It isn’t until Draco feels the familiar tingle of a cleaning charm and the bed dipping again that he realises Potter isn’t leaving, but he must have been looking for his wand.

“Sorry, I’m shit at wandless cleaning charms,” Potter apologises softly, his warm body wrapping itself around Draco before he tugs the sheet up to their waists. Potter is solid, warm — _real_.

Draco forces himself to look, to really look at Potter. He takes in the mop of dark hair that’s resting upon his chest and feels his heart ache once again for an entirely new reason. Draco has a million questions, but Potter’s body is still flushed with warmth, his heart beating strong against Draco’s chest and his fingers tracing small circles across the scars on Draco’s chest, and Draco thinks that perhaps just this once he can feel first and figure things out later.

***~*~*~***

Harry awakens slowly, the early morning sunlight streaming through the window beside the bed. Harry yawns, stretching his arms over his head and rolling over, coming face to face with a definitely not asleep Draco Malfoy.

“Morning,” Harry whispers. He can’t recall the last time he had sex with anyone, man or woman, and it’s been even longer still since he allowed himself to stay with them until morning. It was a luxury he’d never afforded himself — or maybe he’d just never found the person who made him feel like it was inevitable that he’d stay till morning, not a luxury to do so.

He can’t help but notice that the lines of Draco’s face look softer in the morning somehow. Harry had been able to admit he found him attractive for quite awhile. He’d been drawn to him in the same way he’d been drawn to things that felt a little bit reckless and dangerous; but in the stillness of the now, Harry doesn’t think anything about Draco looks reckless. Draco looks like all the things Harry wanted and was too afraid to admit, even to himself - a partner, an equal, someone not just to make his life better but to build a better life _with_.

Draco takes ages to answer, and Harry worries he was mistaken about what Draco might want from him, worries that Draco didn’t want him to spend the night, but then Draco’s hand is moving towards Harry’s face, brushing the hair out of his eyes. “Do you want to know where I was? All those years I was gone.”

Harry nods, afraid if he speaks he might spook him off.

Draco sucks on his bottom lip, a poignant pause hanging between them before he speaks. “I was in Cardiff.”

Harry sits up suddenly, the sheet falling off his body as he blinks at Draco in surprise. “You were so close? But I never saw you!”

Draco’s eyes soften, something that looks like pleasure spreading across his face as he too sits up, settling himself beside Harry, resting his back against the headboard. “Were you looking for me?”

“Might’ve been… a few times,” Harry answers honestly, clasping his hands in his lap.

Harry nearly jumps when Draco’s hand rests atop his knee, the touch somehow wholly unexpected. “I had a small flat, a quiet life. Lived like a Muggle for a long time, if you can believe it. I just wanted to make my way without people telling me who I was or who I was capable of being.”

Harry understands that more than he cares to. “Why all the crazy stories then?”

Draco rests his shoulder against Harry’s. “I just wanted to control the way people talked about me, control the way they saw me.”

“I think,” Harry starts, inhaling deeply. “Maybe if you stop spending so much time worrying about how people see you, and just live the life you want. Then maybe... maybe you’ll be who you want to be and everything else will follow.”

Harry worries he’s overstepped, but then Draco’s hands are on his face as Draco straddles his lap. “Fuck, you’re going to make me crazy, you know that?”

Harry can’t help but laugh. “Is that something you think you might want?”

“Yes, _Harry_.”

Harry leans forward, resting his forehead against Draco’s. “You know, we always need help at the Civil Rights Union of Magical Britain.”

Draco’s eyes flash with something unreadable. “Money?”

Harry shakes his head, nudging Draco’s nose with his own and kissing the side of his mouth. “Not money. People. _You_. You might have noticed but I’m a bit scatterbrained sometimes. It’d be nice to have you there.”

“Need help emptying your pockets of all those teabags?” Draco huffs out, his fingers finding their way into Harry’s hair.

Harry sighs contently as Draco’s fingertips drag along his scalp as he begins to kiss along Harry’s neck making his words coming out breathlessly. “Always need a good pamphlet maker. I heard you were great at - ah fuck, at uh making buttons. Can’t be too different.”

Draco stops his ministrations and Harry’s worried he’s said the wrong thing but then Draco presses his face into Harry’s shoulder, his laughter muffled against Harry’s skin.

Harry smiles. “I mean it, you know.”

Draco pulls back, looking at Harry as if almost afraid to believe him. “And is that something you would want? Me working with you, all the time?”

“Yes,” Harry breathes out softly. “CRUMB isn’t just work. It’s everything to me. I mean, it started that way, as something to fill my time and a way to use my name for something good. I wanted to advocate for Teddy, for myself, for everyone else who had no voice. But it became something more. It’s not just what I do, it’s who I am. It’s my life and I’d like you to be a part of that. If you’d like to I mean.”

“I’d like that,” Draco breathes out slowly looking pensive. “I wasn’t sure how long I was going to stay in England this time, you know. I didn’t know if I would find what I was looking for.”

“What were you looking for?” Harry asks, the answer feeling important.

Draco’s fingers slip into Harry’s hair, his lips moving across the side of Harry’s face, his voice barely above a whisper. “A reason to stay.”

“And did you find—”

But Draco doesn’t let him finish, instead pressing his lips to Harry’s and kissing him softly.

Draco’s lips are warm, already familiar in a way that makes Harry’s toes curl. He thinks maybe, without realising it, he’d been searching for a place to belong as well, and just maybe they might create, not find, that place together.

“So about this job offer, what exactly would the benefits be?” Draco’s eyes are alight with mischief and Harry’s stomach swoops.

“Well the hours are long and it’s a bit thankless at times and the tea’s a bit dodgy, but I hear the company isn’t half bad. If you like that kind of thing.”

Draco’s feelings are unmistakable in that moment, his smile open. “Oh I like it. I like it very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://goldentruth813.tumblr.com/) <3


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